


Truck

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Dark, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the ships burn, Maedhros pretends Maglor is Fingon, and Maglor finally asks for something in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truck

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set after the burning of the ships, and warning: **I haven’t even finished the book, so I may be all off.** This is also sad, but we know it won’t last as Fingon and Maedhros will be together again after this in canon. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Much of the camp is still in shock, or too hardened to notice where Maitimo walks, though he was the only one to speak against it. He’s in a similar state, numb at his ends. When he slips into his brother’s tent, the light and heat of the candles isn’t enough: he feels still in shadow. Yet he can’t look directly at the flames that hang from the poles about the roof and structure, because it makes him think of the ships dwindling to ash, taking all hope of seeing Findekáno again with it. 

The thought of that, of his life devoid of Findekáno utterly, makes his steps falter, makes him grit his teeth. The strife in Valinor sundered them apart, but there was always that _hope_ that they’d reunite, that the eastern lands would bring new beginnings. But there’s nothing special about the soil under Makalaurë’s rugs, and Findekáno’s absence is like a constant knife in Maitimo’s chest. He finds Makalaurë sitting near the back, watching a candle flicker with a despondent expression. 

Maitimo doesn’t need to say anything. He doesn’t blame Makalaurë, of course—he didn’t want to defy his father, either. In the end, he didn’t. Makalaurë’s always been kind, and he still seems haunted by it, even as Maitimo threads long fingers in his dark hair and turns his head. 

Maitimo is on Makalaurë’s mouth before he’s even properly sat down. He stays on his knees, Makalaurë cross-legged, towering over his brother with either hand on the side of Makalaurë’s face. His hair is dark, silken, _like Findekáno’s_. When Maitimo closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s Findekáno he’s kissing. It would be less wrong than this but was somehow harder, now impossible, to devise. Makalaurë knows and is lovely enough to allow it, even kissing Maitimo back in a manner not far from how Findekáno’s might feel. 

Their kisses are stronger for it, quickly fierce and searching, Maitimo opening wide to shove his tongue down his brother’s throat. Makalaurë surrenders to it, ever leaning into him, then spreads his hands along Maitimo’s chest and _squeezes_ through his tunic, slipping down to map his body. 

Maitimo parts them only to strip it off, his mail already retired. Makalaurë’s in a similar set easy to divest. Maitimo tugs Makalaurë’s tunic right over his head, wishing he were a little more built, a little more toned, pronounced, like _Findekáno_ , but Maitimo can’t truly fault his brother’s beauty. He drags his hands down Makalaurë’s creamy sides, his mouthing falling to Makalaurë’s, but Makalaurë tilts his head to turn away. 

Maitimo pauses instantly. Makalaurë has never denied him—if anything, Makalaurë is often over eager, overflowing here where he’s restrained in public. He’s known from the beginning what Maitimo wanted, and he still chose this lie. What he gets out of it beyond base touches, Maitimo doesn’t know, but Makalaurë opens his mouth, eyes lowered in thought. 

It takes him a moment to speak, and first he licks his lips once, stalling, clearly hesitant. Maitimo brushes one dark strand aside, clearing room to peck Makalaurë’s forehead: a show of support: Makalaurë can tell him _anything_. It makes Makalaurë smile softly and ask, “Can I... may I call you Atar?”

Maitimo freezes where his lips are still lingering on Makalaurë’s skin. When he pulls back, there’s shock in him; he’s no fool, and he knows what that means. He has no right to judge and tries to restrain it, but Makalaurë’s cheeks flush all the same, and he murmurs, “I will understand if this makes you uncomfortable, if you do not wish to—”

“I say his name when I come,” Maitimo cuts in bitterly—they both know who _he_ is—though he rarely calls Makalaurë it otherwise. Makalaurë is _not_ Findekáno, and it takes the full throes of passion to truly trick himself into it. Makalaurë shrugs his shoulders subtly as though it’s of no consequence. 

“I do love you, Nelyo,” Makalaurë explains, gentle and sounding, somehow, wise even in this, “But I... there are things I wish for that I cannot have, like you, and I had thought that perhaps...”

“I would help you in your fantasies, as you do in mine?” As Makalaurë nods in clear relief, Maitimo chuckles, “Though I look nothing like him. At least you have the right hair.”

“You do,” Makalaurë counters quietly. “...And you are strong like him, with the same fight. And you smell like him, sometimes, when I close my eyes. You are his eldest, his heir.”

“I am not him,” Maitimo mutters, sure, before kissing Makalaurë’s soft cheek. “But I will pretend I am for you, as I would deny you nothing.”

Makalaurë’s grin is wondrous as it gross, until it’s touching his eyes, and he presses his lips to Maitimo’s, then murmuring, “Thank you... Ata.”

Maitimo bestows him another kiss, then untangles to stand. The tent is full of too many shadows, and though the designs of their tents are clever enough to negate the stories shadows tell, sight, in this case, is unhelpful. Maitimo walks about the small enclave, blowing out the flames, and asks as he does so, “What would you have Atar do to you?”

Makalaurë, still seated elegantly on the floor, muses, “Take me, I think, the way you do. And tell me that I am precious to him.”

“You are precious to him.” 

“I little hear him say it, and perhaps never how I should like. Your voice sounds like him, sometimes, when you are in the right mood.”

“I will try to be,” Maitimo promises as the last candle hisses out, sending the meager light left into darkness. The stars still shimmer through the fabric walls, but they’ve become only silhouettes. Maitimo tries to deepen his voice, sharpen it a tad, imitating as best he can, and when he comes back to Makalaurë, he purrs, “Your ata loves you very much, my Kana.” 

He can’t see much of Makalaurë’s face anymore, but he can _feel_ the shiver that runs through Makalaurë’s body, and it makes him wonder how he never noticed this before. They all love their father, perhaps all more than sons should, but Makalaurë’s clearly runs deeper. He no longer touches Maitimo but waits for Maitimo to come to him, and Maitimo adjusts his own fantasy accordingly—he’s already atoned for his sins, been forgiven, and Findekáno is allowing him to take what he’s so long desired. 

He kisses Makalaurë slow but heated now, the way he imagines their father would, savouring the taste of his beloved son. Makalaurë is more pliant for it, more eager, and he runs his hands all over Maitimo’s body, right down to Maitimo’s trousers, fingers toying with the tie. Maitimo parts their lips to murmur, “Undress your atar, Kanafinwë. Show Ata how much you desire him.”

Makalaurë lets out a languid moan. He tugs quickly at Maitimo’s hem, then tries to push it down Maitimo’s hips, and Maitimo lifts up on his knees to allow it. He’s freeing Makalaurë at the same time, though he doesn’t just stop with pushing the fabric down Makalaurë’s thighs. He hisses, “Lift your body for me,” and Makalaurë raises enough for Maitimo to tug down his trousers, then sits back and extends his legs for Maitimo to peel the trousers off. It leaves Makalaurë in nothing, ready to sleep as he was, and Maitimo nearly there.

Completely bare, Makalaurë throws his arms around Maitimo’s shoulders and surges into him, pressing them together. Findekáno would do this, he thinks: rut into him swift and fast, melding their bodies in every place they could. Maitimo still explores Makalaurë, until he’s had enough and needs _more_ , and he brings his hand up to Makalaurë’s lips. Maitimo orders, “Suck them, Kana. You are too valued to me to take dry.”

Makalaurë opens instantly and hungrily plunges down onto Maitimo’s fingers. He sucks them hard enough to hallow out his cheeks, his tongue laving over them, while Maitimo shivers and thinks of Findekáno’s mouth, the way it would feel stretched around his hand, or just pressed against his skin, in butterfly-kisses down his thigh or wet along his crotch. He’s had Makalaurë take him and speak to him the way Findekáno would, but it’s never enough, and their voices are little alike. Maitimo fucks Makalaurë’s mouth anyway, until he’s soaking wet and purrs, “ _Good boy_ ”

Makalaurë _moans_ around Maitimo’s flesh, greater than he ever has, and pulls off only to climb into Maitimo’s lap. He takes hold of Maitimo’s shoulders, presses his forehead to Maitimo’s, and whimpers, “ _Ata_.”

“You followed me,” Maitimo adds, spurred on with the game. He drifts a slick trail down Makalaurë’s chest as he talks, until he’s dipping between Makalaurë’s legs, feeling about for Makalaurë’s puckered hole. “You came with me despite all the odds, like I knew you would, and you were loyal to me. You are a very, very good boy, my Kana.”

Makalaurë whines in sheer delight. It’s strange to see him this way, so submissive, as they all become to their father’s whims, obedient and nearly delicate. It becomes more difficult to pretend he’s Findekáno, but the fantasy was always fleeting and flickering, however strong Makalaurë’s seems to be. Finding his furrowed brim, Maitimo rubs at him, strokes him until he’s been coaxed open enough to be entered, and Maitimo presses one moist finger inside. He goes slowly, as he always does, because he would never wish to harm his darling brother, though he imagines he and Findekáno would often tackle one another in the throes of battle and take each other nearly raw. Makalaurë presses back into him, breathing fast but taking it well. Carefully, Maitimo adds a second finger, working Makalaurë wider. Only when Maitimo can comfortably slide three fingers in and out of Makalaurë does he withdraw, purring as he does so, “Would you like to ride your atar, Kana, or would you like your lord to hold you down and fill you up?”

“If I am good, may I have both?” Makalaurë asks, already arching into Maitimo and grinding into Maitimo’s lap, held on trembling thighs with his arms wrapped around Maitimo’s neck, his mouth running along Maitimo’s ear. It makes it easy for Maitimo to position them, to press himself to Makalaurë’s waiting hole. He’s the first to rise up, popping into Makalaurë’s body with a sick squelching noise that’s swallowed in Makalaurë’s gasp. He buries himself in the side of Maitimo’s face and moans, “ _Ata_...”

Maitimo tries not to hear it, shuts his eyes again and imagines slipping into Findekáno’s warm chamber. He’s careful, but the ride is easy, thrusting up in little rocks and going deeper each time, while Makalaurë squirms in his lap and sinks down bit by bit. Findekáno, ever unafraid, might drop down all at once. Maitimo’s hands fist tentatively in Makalaurë’s sides but resist shoving him the whole way. Eventually, Makalaurë sinks to the bottom naturally, sits with his full weight atop Maitimo’s thighs, and his walls flex wondrously around Maitimo’s cock. It’s a giddy feeling, surpassed only when Maitimo summons the image Findekáno’s face, screwed up in ecstasy.

He can feel the press of Makalaurë’s cock against his stomach. Maitimo takes hold of it, squeezing once, still a little wet from Makalaurë’s saliva, and Makalaurë whimpers and clings tighter to Maitimo’s shoulders. Then he begins to move, up and down on his own, slow at first, then bouncing feverishly to fill the air with the lewd sounds of slapping skin-on-skin. They already smell of sex, and Makalaurë is louder than he’s ever been, though both are careful never to yell as they’d like. His voice is magnificent, especially like this, but it’s not _Findekáno’s_ , and Maitimo tries not to listen. He shifts his own hips up to help, rocking into Makalaurë but not quite fucking as brutally as he could. He holds onto Makalaurë and digs his face into Makalaurë’s shoulder.

Makalaurë rides him for a time, Maitimo occasionally murmuring pleasantries in his ear, or whispering his name in the strong voice of their father. Makalaurë responds every time. Finally, he begs Maitimo, “Take me, Ata, _please_ , I will not break if you take me as roughly as you like.”

Their father would be rough, Maitimo thinks, and he shivers from the thought, nodding and obliging. He takes hold of Makalaurë’s hips suddenly and shoves him down, surging forward so that Makalaurë’s tossed along the rug covering the earth. His legs fall wide and open around Maitimo’s body, Maitimo still buried deep inside. Makalaurë moans blissfully, and Maitimo pulls half out to slam into him, now unleashing full strength. Maitimo pounds his younger brother hard into the ground, fucking him hard, and it’s easier, that way, to pretend he’s burying his cock in Findekáno’s body, which makes him _burn_ beneath his skin and want to cry. It isn’t just that he left his Findekáno, but that Maitimo _betrayed_ him, stood by and did nothing while he was left behind, and Maitimo deserves the worst of Morgoth’s wrath for that. He deserves the pain he feels now, but not the pleasure, not this sweet brother who accommodates him so kindly, who kisses him and holds him and runs revenant hands along his sweat-slicked body. Makalaurë, Makalaurë _and not Findekáno_ , is here and so very good to him, and for that he tries to wrench away from his own filthy fantasies and gives his precious brother what Makalaurë so deserves. 

He draws on his father’s tones and hisses in Makalaurë’s ear, a near growl, “How dear your are to me, my Kanafinwë. How sweet you taste, how beautiful you are. How wondrous you sound. You are a delight to me—the greatest of all my treasures...” Makalaurë’s voice _breaks_ ; he sounds like he’ll fall apart from how overwhelmed he is. He’s pulsing hot in Maitimo’s hand, ready to burst without even being stroked, and his hips rise up to meet every one of Maitimo’s thrusts. Maitimo nips at his jaw, licks crudely up the side of his face, purrs deep against him, “I love you, my sweet song-bird—your voice brings me such joy, such ecstasy. Of all my creations, your song is my greatest pride. I would cross the sea and back to have you, leave the Valar just so I could claim my precious son, my little Kana, my darling boy.” Makalaurë is trembling, so close—Maitimo can feel it—and Maitimo whispers for Findekáno, “ _I love you so._ ”

Makalaurë bursts, spurting against Maitimo’s stomach and crying out, muffling it against Maitimo’s chest. Maitimo finally pumps him, milking it out, and the quivering of Makalaurë’s ass brings his own orgasm on. He’s overrun with heat and _pleasure_ and the treacherous thought of Findekáno, Findekáno, _Findekáno_ in a steady mantra in his skull that moves him near to tears. He can hardly breathe. He spills into Makalaurë’s body and shoots one hand up to cover his mouth, keep him from sobbing in all his confusion. 

When both are done, they’re wracked with tremors, quiet but for their panting breath. Makalaurë is still beneath him, still sheathing him, and then Makalaurë asks softly, “Tell me I have been good again.” 

Maitimo mutters, “You are a good boy, Kana,” but he’s lost the strength of voice that would imitate their father. Makalaurë doesn’t complain. Their sins are wrapped around them too thick to ever dissolve, but in the safety of each other, there is no judgment. Maitimo finally draws out, feeling Makalaurë’s wince around him and the wetness he drags down Makalaurë’s thighs. 

He lies down beside Makalaurë, reaching for and finding their discarded clothes to bundle beneath their heads in makeshift pillows—he can’t be bothered to move. He gently guides Makalaurë around, and Makalaurë rolls to his side, facing away. It makes it easier for Maitimo to spoon him, pull him in and meld their bodies together. He can remember with precise detail how well Findekáno fit in his arms. 

The damn’s going to break, but Maitimo keeps the pain out of his voice and blinks the rest away. He kisses the back of Makalaurë’s head, snuggling in to sleep. Makalaurë murmurs, heavy and satiated, “Goodnight, Maitimo.” It means their game is over: they’re brothers again, finding solace in each other’s arms. 

Maitimo squeezes Makalaurë tight and wills himself not to cry.


End file.
